


to the trail's end

by masqvia



Series: astra inclinant [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Sea's WoL Challenge (Final Fantasy XIV), Slice of Life, Two WoL AU, fluff. so much it will rot your teeth., honestly just a self indulgent collection for myself, sorry mom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 17,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masqvia/pseuds/masqvia
Summary: A collection of short drabbles and snippets for Sea's 30 day WoL challenge (January 2021).  Primarily Ardbert/WoL. AU, not canon compliant.#22: moment“Probably not the most practical choice there,” he notes dryly as she frantically waves her hand. “Playing with magic at the onset of a storm.”“Aha!” She points a finger at him. “So you do remember what I taught you.”“Figure it’s more along the lines of common sense.”“You’d be surprised. Us black mages have very little of it.”
Relationships: Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: astra inclinant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090400
Kudos: 52





	1. crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted on tumblr. To be updated as necessary. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. 5.0 and on spoilers. 
> 
> The list of prompts can be found [here.](https://seaswolchallenge.tumblr.com/post/638302054350225408/hello-again-its-been-a-couple-of-months-but-i) All of these will likely be written in the Two WoL AU verse I wrote my longfic for. The tldr: Ardbert is back on the Source for a second time.
> 
> Not in chronological order.

The celebrations in the Musica Universalis can be heard all throughout the night. The entire Crystarium itself seems to be alive—it’s always had a determined verve to it, a rebellious streak in the face of inevitability and death when compared to the rest of Norvrandt—but the energy coursing through it tonight was different. More hopeful. Less inhibited. 

For once, no one was drinking to forget what the future held. At least not when she last strolled through the pub. 

“Not going to join them?” Ardbert asks, somewhere in the inn room from her left the moment she steps through the door. 

“Maybe another time.”

“Seems strange for the hero of the hour to go missing at a time like this. Or are you not a fan of large celebrations?”

She can feel him move—a silent spectre from the corner of her eye. The lack of footsteps and shuffling of armor was unsettling once; he was not a subtle man by any means. 

“It’s not that,” she says, settling against the window ledge. “Though my experiences with large celebrations isn’t that great, either.”

“Can’t hold your liquor?” 

That pulls a snort out of her. “Please.”

The single raised eyebrow tells her exactly what he’s thinking. “Do me a favor, then? Enjoy a tankard. For the both of us.” 

“You’re strangely determined to have me celebrate,” she notes wryly, but gets up towards the table all the same. A habit she’s picked up—not being able to say no to him. 

“And you’re strangely determined not to.” 

All of the ale is downstairs. The inn room, however, is stocked with some sort of Norvrandt wine. Ardbert eyes it with distaste the entire time she fiddles with the cork but seems otherwise appeased at the compromise. 

The taste sits bitter against her lips with a hint of something sweet—raspberries? Blackberries? Whatever it is, it seems oddly fitting. Her smile thins. 

“I’m not keen on celebrating,” she eventually says, swirling the glass and nursing her drink in the silence that follows. “Because I’m not finished yet.” 

He crosses his arms. The lack of noise from his armor snags her attention again. No leather rustles. No light clink of metal. The silence of his movements echoes through her head like a broken church bell. “Is there another Lightwarden you’re expecting to fight?” 

She forces her gaze to the floor. “No.”

“Another Ascian, then?”

“There’s always another Ascian,” she mumbles, glaring at a tile by his feet. “But no.” 

“Then—”

“Ardbert.”

His gaze is piercing as she sits quietly at the table. The celebrations below seem to swell in opposition to her silence—and a crescendo of laughter joined by a sharp popping noise has her thinking someone finally brought out the sparklers.

She wonders if he knows what’s rattling around in her mind. She likes to think that he does, because he’s gotten eerily good at predicting her moods and words the longer she’s stayed on the First. So as he considers her from across the room, she patiently takes another small sip and lets her thoughts spiral. The wine is warm going down her throat and leaves a slight burn that chases off some of the more chilling thoughts. 

The battle with Emet-Selch could’ve ended another way. She’s done a good enough job avoiding thinking about those outcomes, avoiding the ‘what-if’s’ and ‘could haves’, but now that there’s finally a quiet moment with no Lightwarden threat or the promise of another Flood…

“That’s not something you should be worrying over right now,” Ardbert finally says. She catches the small sigh as his shoulders slightly drop. “Better to enjoy this victory with your friends. Take a breather. The rest… it’s another fight for another day.” 

“Mm.” The rest of the Scions were downstairs mingling, she knows—and Alisaie will probably be knocking down her door in the next few minutes. And really, what they all pulled was nothing short of a miracle. 

Still. She’s always been a bit selfish. “Sit with me?” 

“Only if you go downstairs and have some proper ale.” 

A small smile curves her lips as he remains standing. Stubborn to the last. “You know I’m not actually a fan of it.” 

“And that’s a damn tragedy. Have you even tried the sort here?” 

She tries to curb her growing smile. “…yes.” It comes out like a question. 

He rolls his eyes, then nods his head at the door. “Right. That’s that. Get down there and enjoy a tankard, as I said. I promise it’s better than whatever you’ve got in that glass.”

“Bold words.”

“Bolder tastes, too,” he says with a slight smile. “Now get going. Before your friends come knocking and asking questions.” 

She’s still not in the celebratory mood, but he was right that taking a breather was a good idea. They’ll figure out the last bit of this puzzle another day.


	2. dawn

A shift in the air wakes her. 

She cracks open bleary eyes and wonders for a still moment why she’s awake. The room is yet dark, the world quiet, and as far as she can immediately tell there’s nothing wrong. She sighs and sinks back into her pillow. 

Then she registers the chill at her back and frowns. Her hand reaches around to grope at the space behind her—only to meet soft sheets. Not the body she was expecting. Warmth remains in the dip of the bed, though, and she hears the low shuffle of clothes.

She rolls over and blinks past the sleep in her eyes just in time to see him pull a shirt over his head. “Ardbert?”

“Go back to sleep, love.”

She glances at the window behind him. The sky is a faint dark blue, and she can still hear crickets in the bushes outside. 

“The sun isn’t even up yet. Where are you going?”

He tightens the drawstring around his pants before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I’ll be back before breakfast. Promise.”

“Doesn’t answer my question,” she mumbles, yet sinks back into the bed. If he said everything was alright, then everything was alright. 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep again.

**. . . .**

It happens again the next morning.

And the next.

She wakes to an empty bed, the sheets long cold. It’s an odd day that she doesn’t have anything planned or demanding her attention, so she lounges about for a few more minutes, staring blankly at the ceiling and listening to the patter of rain hitting the roof.

A frown tugs at her lips. 

Ardbert returns just as she pads down the stairs. He’s soaked to the bone, evidently having been caught in the terrible weather outside. A gust manages to get in before he fully shuts the door. She makes a mental note to get a bigger welcome mat as water pools beneath him. 

“Everything alright?” she asks, observing his jerky movements and leaning against the wall at the base of the stairs. “You look like you fell off a boat.” She eyes the set of fishing gear he sets aside and raises a brow. “ _Did_ you fall off a boat?” 

He sighs heavily and shakes the rain from his hair before leaning down to tug off waterlogged boots. She hears the squelching even from across the room. 

“No. Just got caught in that sudden downpour.”

“The skywatchers said it would rain today.”

“They said it might. Bit of a difference there.”

“Sure—except ‘might’ basically means it will.” He seems oddly put-out by the fact, and after another beat of watching him she decides to help. A quick run upstairs later and she returns with a towel in her hand. He straightens out and catches it with one hand. 

“No luck with the fish this morning?” 

He gives her a droll look from under the towel on his head, bits of brown hair sticking to his forehead. “Am I holding any?” 

So he _was_ annoyed. She hums and tugs at the buckles on his shirt. His skin is chilly to the touch whenever her fingers brush against it; she frowns and tugs a bit harder. “Take a warm shower after you get out of this, else you’ll get sick.”

“That was the plan.” He lets her help him shrug off the wet cloth. And as the silence stretches between them, his posture loses some of its tension. “…Sorry. It’s not you I’m frustrated with.” A gentle touch against her wrist accompanies the apology.

She pulls the towel from his head to rest over his shoulders. “It’s alright. But wake me before you go tomorrow? We can tag team the fish.” 

He raises a brow. “Thought you’ve no experience with fishing.”

“I don’t. But I do have experience with elemental magic.” A mischievous spark lights up in her eyes as she leans towards him. “They can’t get away if they’re stuck in a water bubble in the air, now can they?”


	3. falling

“Can I ask you a question?”

Ardbert’s eyes remain closed. “Not sure why you keep asking for permission. Not as though my answer will keep you from asking whatever it is.”

“I just like to give you a heads up. Let you prepare yourself.”

The corner of his lips turn up. “Is that what it is?”

She chews on her cheek then rolls over onto her stomach. The dry grass is scratchy against her skin—a hint irritating—but easy enough to ignore. “When did you know? Like, you know. About this.”

“Think that’s the most eloquent question I’ve ever been asked." 

"You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“I know you know. It's—” she rolls her eyes when she spots the growing smirk. “You know what I’m asking. Now come on, I’m curious. When’d you know?”

He snickers again, but otherwise settles down. She waits patiently as he considers the question, fiddling with the blades of grass by her fingers. There’s a small rock digging into her leg—the hills around Costa del Sol aren’t the best place to lay about and watch clouds—but again, it’s dull enough to ignore. 

“To tell the truth? I don’t know.” He raises his hands when she turns to glare at him. “I’m serious. There’s no single moment where it suddenly all made sense. Least not for me. I just… knew, at some point. Simple as that.”

A warm breeze from the sea slides over her skin as she weighs his answer. It was very him—no nonsense, straight to the point. 

“And you?” he asks, propping himself up on one elbow when she rolls onto her back again. “Since we’re on the topic. When’d you realize it?”

“I think…” she mulls it over a bit longer, idly picking at the hem of her shirt. “I think it was some time after we returned from Kholusia. That moment on the bridge comes to mind…when everything went to shite. Perfect time for realizations, right?”

His eyes shine with amusement as he stares down at her. "So that’s why you’d gone red at the time. I had wondered.”

“Terrible timing, I know.”

The mirth slowly fades as his expression turns pensive. “I’d still been a shade then." 

"You were.” The next words come out quieter. More hesitant, as she turns them over in her head. “Still, I was…optimistic. Do you think that was dumb of me?”

“Considering where we are now? No. But back then…” A sigh leaves his lips. He lays back down beside her, eyes fixated on the passing clouds. “Aye. I would’ve called you a fool.”

“Mm. There are worse things to be. And you know the phrase—love makes people do stupid things.”

“Love, is it?” 

“You’re still gonna make me say it, even after all this time?” She nudges his shoulder with hers. “You know it is.” 

That pulls another small smile from him. “Never hurts to keep hearing it.”


	4. ferality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.4 spoilers.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” **  
**

Ardbert’s smile is thin as he stands beside her. “Just one?” 

At any other moment she would’ve snarked back. Said something witty. “I’m trying to ignore the others.” 

“With a sight like that?”

“Didn’t say I was succeeding at it.”

It feels like the dark, skeletal tower in the distance is mocking them. So close, yet a nightmare to get to—climbing down the jagged cliffsides of the floating city brought with it a million chances to break your neck. Getting to the base of the tower would be a hurdle in itself. 

Her expression remains carefully blank as the tower pulses steadily. “This used to be one of my favorite spots.”

“One of the more terrible crimes the Ascians have wrought,” Ardbert agrees, and she frowns at the hint of a sneer. “Marring a sightseeing perch.”

She knows they’re both on edge with this. Tense and keyed up and chafing against each other ever since Fandaniel left in a blaze of fire and dramatics from Ala Mhigo. 

And they both had a habit of lashing out when stressed. 

_“Short a few marbles, that one,” Ardbert had said in the strained silence after the fires were put out._

_“More like he lost the entire plot,” she’d said._

They’d joked about it since it was necessary given the audience but the lingering weight of unease never left either of them. For all his theatrics, it was impossible to ignore the sinister veneer hanging over the Ascian. There was something feral about him—like a wild animal who’d found silks and dressed up in them to hide its jagged teeth.

“At least now we have something to look forward to,” she mumbles, rubbing her arm and trying to get rid of the goosebumps. “And… confirmation on Zenos. We have some sort of take on what he’s been doing. Finally.” 

Ardbert’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. It feels like a reminder. _Together, or not at all_ , he’d said. She feels the familiar urge to run, to hide where her problems won’t ever find her—won’t ever find him—rear its head again. It strikes her so hard she can’t help but suck in a breath. 

If she was being honest, some part of her could appreciate Fandaniel’s ruthless take on things. He didn’t strike her as tired—everything about the Ascian flaunted wild, unhinged energy—but she still wonders if some part of his actions are spurred by some deep-seated desire to rest. 

To finally bring an end to things and be done with it. 

Ardbert’s grip on her shoulder tightens. Another reassurance. Maybe a warning? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s read her like an open book. 

She sighs and reaches up to rest her hand over his. He feels like a much-needed anchor these days. A safe port to return to whenever she gets caught up in worrying. And despite the heavy air which lingers between them—which feels far too common now—she hopes she gives him an equal amount of reassurance. 

“I just… really don’t like this,” she repeats quietly, squeezing his hand. “There’s been this horrible, sinking feeling in my gut since they’ve cropped up across Eorzea. And an itch in the back of my head like I know what he’s planning but can’t fully piece together. I think that’s part of why this is driving me so mad. I know, but I don’t. It’s like trying to remember a hazy dream.” 

“And have you had any of those? About all this.”

“No.” The Echo, for once, has been silent for her—which feels like an omen in itself. 

His eyes narrow as though he’s also realized how unusual that is. She watches from her peripherals as he goes taut, back ramrod straight. The stance, too, is familiar: he’s coiled like he’s preparing for a fight.

This time, she’s the one resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Didn’t ever think I’d _want_ to keep having those kinds of dreams,” she says and rubs her thumb against his skin to ignore her own fraying nerves. “But then we’d at least know what to expect.” 

He remains quiet as he considers the ominous tower pulsating in the distance. It’s truly an ugly thing. A horrid monolith that reminds her eerily of the Void Ark. 

“Ugh.” She reaches up to run both hands down her face. “Gods, I hate this waiting. Part of me wishes the damn Ascian would just do whatever it is he wants to do already so _we_ can do as we’ve always done. Why do they always do this dramatic build-up to what we all know will happen anyway?”

“Whatever it is he plans to do involves Zenos.” He gives her a measured, sidelong look. “And you weren’t keen on facing him again.” 

Her fingers dig into her palms. “I’m not. But I want to get this over with.”

After another pause, Ardbert glances away again. “…He’d mentioned the end of the world.”

“Like we haven’t faced that before.”

“You haven’t.” 

The sharp edge makes her pause. And suddenly, it clicks.

“Ardbert,” she says, careful. “The world’s not going to end.”

“I know.”

“It won’t.”

His jaw clenches. “I said I know. We won’t let it.” 


	5. starlight

_This is a dream_ , she tells herself even as her lungs constrict in her chest. This is a dream. 

But the sharp burn in her throat feels real. The fear crawling up her spine and numbing her fingers feels real. The slow, heavy gust of air brushing against her neck feels far too real, and she would recognize the oppressive figure looming at her back anywhere. 

She takes shaky, stumbling steps forward until her feet knock against another body. Her blood runs cold. 

Visions of sharp, grinning teeth flash across her mind. Then a clawed, gloved hand enters her line of sight and she jolts herself awake by pure will. 

_Dream_ , she tells herself in the resounding silence of her bedroom. Not real. 

But the creeping panic transfers over no matter how much she tries to shove it down, and she doesn’t quite manage to let go of her death grip on the bed sheets in time. 

“Mihr?" 

She feels the bed dip and hears the sheets rustle. Half-glazed eyes peer at her through the darkness, still heavy with sleep—and the sight triggers another wave of fear so fierce she freezes. 

The soft hiccup that escapes her throat is enough to spark him to immediate awareness, but she’s up and beelining for the bathroom before he can ask again.

**. . .**

It feels like she’s stuck in a loop sometimes. Every now and then she’ll get a good feeling, a rush of confidence that has her thinking she’s managed to claw her way out, to finally step off of whatever predetermined path fate has decided to put her on—and every time it ends with her feeling like she’s being dragged back by her feet. 

It happens often enough where she’s long past thinking it’s a coincidence. Some part of her wonders about the Gods and their sense of humor and how she’d like to have a few strong words with Fate about taking a long, long vacation. 

"I’m sorry I keep waking you like this,” she mumbles and rests her head on her arms. The stonewall is cold against her skin. Something solid to anchor herself to. “And you know you don’t have to get up with me.”

The hand rubbing soothing circles into her back doesn’t stop. “I know.” 

“Though the fresh air helps.”

“Hm. Think that’s a sign that we need to clean.”

The lighthearted remark eases the knot in her chest. “You’re the one who tracks in mud more often than not, you know.”

“And you’re the one with a library’s worth of musty books. Where do you think the dust comes from?” 

“Don’t blame the spellbooks just because you can’t read them.” 

The eyeroll that follows is so powerful she doesn’t even need to look at him to see it. She hides another smile.

Like always, the Mist is quiet at night save for the constant ebb and flow of the ocean, the rustle of palm trees, and the occasional cricket. 

“Huh.” 

She turns and finds him staring thoughtfully up at the sky. “The stars are similar here,” he says, brows furrowed. “The constellations, I mean. I never noticed.”

“You never compared them before?”

“Never gave it much thought.” 

She cranes her head and squints at the glittering mosaic above them.

It’s easy to recall the lessons from Leveva. About the Bole, Spear, Balance. White magic has always been a favorite—a tried and true method—but astrology has ever been a curiosity for her. Something about dipping into the power of the stars, rewriting events and playing with fate was far too satisfying. 

_Maybe that’s why we don’t get along_ , she thinks wryly at the stars. Constantly butting heads. Fate probably didn’t like the constant meddling. 

“Leveva did a reading for me way back when,” she says then, voice distant as she traces the familiar outline of the Ewer. “The first time we met.”

“Who?”

“An astrologian in Ishgard.”

The next pause is a beat longer. “A what?”

Her lips quirk up. Of course, Norvrandt didn’t have the equivalent. And if it did, Ardbert wasn’t ever one to follow the development and branches of various forms of magicks. 

“Urianger is one. And there’s a place called the Athenaeum Astrologicum in Ishgard. You’ve noticed the telescopes around Coerthas, right?”

“Aye. I figured it was a hobby of theirs. Kholusia favored the stars as well, yet their use was mostly for navigating the sea.” He frowns. “Can’t see that getting much use in the mountains, though.”

She hums in agreement as he turns and leans his hip on the railing to better face her. “It’s somewhat similar. The Ishgardians watched the skies for signs of attack during the war. The astrologians use the skies and stylized cards for something similar—scrying the future, but also harnessing the power of the stars.”

“The power of the stars,” he repeats with a raised brow. “To ward off dragons?”

She grins as he crosses his arms, clearly dubious about the entire thing. “Yes, they’d raise an impressive barrier whenever the horde showed signs of taking flight.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

He considers her a moment before his eyes narrow in accusation. “No they didn’t." 

"How do you know?”

He holds her gaze, then leans in until he’s looming, close enough she feels his breath on her skin. He’s long since lost the ability to embarrass her, but her cheeks still warm at his proximity and under the focused weight of his scrutiny. 

She tries to keep up the charade. Really. But as always, she cracks first and can’t fully smother the grin tugging at her lips at the sight of him so comically serious. 

He pulls back with the shadow of a smirk, arms crossed and entirely too satisfied. “I knew it.“ 

"I hate it when you do that.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t,” she agrees easily, and reaches up to brush some stray hair from his forehead. “But you don’t have to sound so smug about it each time.”

He catches her wrist before she pulls her hand back. The gentle kiss on her palm sends a wave of warmth right down to her toes, and his eyes glow like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“And? What did this Leveva see in your reading?”

The soft press of his lips against her skin is entirely too distracting. “…She said, and I quote, ‘the stars say you should run.’”

“Run?”

“Something about a tall, dark stranger being trouble." 

"Sounds like it was solid advice,” he murmurs, but doesn’t let go of her hand. “You ought to have followed it.”

She rubs a thumb against his cheek. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk who canon is. never met her


	6. precipice

“Why won’t this stupid thing _work_?”

If he was being honest, he’d say he’s at least a little worried the house might catch fire within the next five minutes. If not from whatever alchemical concoctions are currently garnering her ire, then from her temper. 

“Still no luck?” he asks, casually ignoring the increasingly worrisome smell of… something burning. He’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure he wants to ask.

“No. The reactions are all wrong. It’s not supposed to do this.” Bottles clink behind him. Some tomes fall to the floor as she hisses in a breath and mutters to herself. “I swear if it’s the same issue as before I’m gonna—”

The rest is unintelligible. 

He casually turns to the next page of his book, lounging about on the couch in her study and doing an admirable job of ignoring the sounds coming from behind him. It’s not the first time she’s experimented with reagents and catalysts and ingredients he’s never even heard of and it was most certainly not the last. 

Unless the house caught fire. 

As if on cue, he hears the familiar crackle and pop of a sparking flame before a low hiss of wind snuffs it out. Or was it ice? She switched between elemental magicks so quick it might’ve been both. 

He turns another page. 

A tube shatters. 

“Are you _serious_ —”

He doesn’t even blink. “Sounds like your project is going according to plan.”

The room immediately drops in temperature, enough to spark goosebumps all down his arms. He sighs and marks the page, then pulls himself up to a sitting position just in time to see her cross the room and irritably push open another window. 

Her long gloves and protective apron are covered in some sort of red, gooey muck. Smoke furls around her arms, then rolls out the house with a snap of her fingers. The strange smell goes with it.

Her workstation—a long, metal table that’s met the end of its days—has been completely frozen over as well as the full corner of the room. Something akin to a contained explosion of… whatever muck is on her gloves juts up and out of the broken tube. It sprawls out in all directions, clearly having been seconds from covering the ceiling. 

“Don’t,” she warns with a single raised finger when he opens his mouth. “Not a word.”

His mouth clicks shut. Still, he watches with amusement as she stares down at the mess she’d made, comically forlorn. 

“Ugh.” Her shoulders drop. “There’s no salvaging this." 

"That sounds like quitter’s talk.” He raises his hands as she throws him an exasperated look over her shoulder. “Alright, alright.”

It takes her a moment longer to determine the workstation was well and truly beyond saving. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she tugs off the gloves and throws her apron onto the floor by the mess. Dejected, she stomps over to him and flops on the couch. 

He can’t help but laugh at the pout on her lips. 

“Oh stop,” she mumbles, crossing her arms and looking away. “I was on the precipice of something great, okay?”

“Dare I ask what that ‘something great’ was?" 

”…no.“

Curious. He arches a brow. 

"It’s a secret.” She peers at him, suspicious. “Are you an alchemist by any chance?”

“I think you’d know by now.”

Her fingers tap away at her arm. Another moment passes.

She sighs again and shifts to get comfortable, leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch and resting her chin in her hand. “…it was going to be a surprise for you. I’m not telling you what it is until I finish it, but… I think you’ll like it. Promise.”

He glances, very carefully, at the frozen monstrosity stuck to the table. 

“I know—it looks terrible.” There’s a smile playing on her face now, too, as though she knows how absurd this all is. “But I promise that’s nowhere near what the end result is supposed to be. Do you trust me?”

“On most days,” he hedges. “On others…”

“You worry I’m going to burn the house down, I know. But I know what I’m doing.” She stands then as if struck with a new idea, stretching and smiling down at him with that same mischievous twinkle in her eye that he loves. “Besides,” she says, “nonsense like this is half the fun of alchemy despite the frustration. There’s never a dull moment with it.”

“Nor with you.” He gestures at the frozen corner of the room. “It’s a small wonder that the house _is_ still here, all things considered.”

“And it’s going to remain standing for a lot longer.” She clasps her hands together. “Now, uh, think you can help me lift the table? Or at least cleave it in two?”


	7. revenant

It’s hard to shake off the doubts sometimes. Hard to shake off the uncertainty that sinks through the cracks and makes itself at home in the hollow of his chest. Hard to shake off the incessant feeling that he’s out of place and out of time like a piece of jetsam adrift in the open ocean. 

He knows better, he really does, but he’s never done well with getting a handle on his emotions when they threaten to burst like this, and every now and then it all crept up on him like a barbed vine. 

No one was meant to live forever. Time wore down empires, legends and landscapes, even the most stubborn of rocks—and he’s experienced firsthand what it does to a person. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

No wonder the Ascians all seemed a bit mad. He’d had a hundred years to wander and it nearly broke him. 

“Hey,” she says softly, bumping his shoulder. “You’re doing that thing again." 

He smiles ruefully but doesn’t move. “Sorry.” 

_We all have nightmares_ , he’d once told her. _Our own demons to contend with_. His came less often now but on some days they were just as difficult to move past.

She stands beside him, tracking the slow spin of the aetheryte in the plaza. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" 

“At this time of night?”

“Sure. When has time ever stopped us from doing anything?”

And isn’t that a loaded question. His shoulders drop as he sinks further into himself. It always came back to time, didn’t it? 

A heartbeat passes. She shifts in place, no doubt staring at the back of his head. He wonders if she’s going to call him out again. 

“You know,” she says then, slowly as if testing the words on her tongue, “there’s stories of a ghost around here.”

It takes him a moment to process that. And longer than he wants to admit that no, she’s probably not talking about him. “What?”

“A sailor’s tale. I mean, they have loads of them. Stories of sea monsters and spirits and what-have-you out there in the open sea—some of which are actually true, mind you—” she gestures idly with her hand as if to say, ‘I’ll you that one later,’ “—but I know of at least one about a ghost that supposedly roams the docks around here. Have you heard of it?”

His brows furrow as she swings her legs over to take a seat on the ledge beside him. “Can’t say I have.”

“Well, that’s probably for the better. You wouldn’t be so calm walking around the upper decks otherwise. I think it took me a good two weeks to feel comfortable walking around Limsa Lominsa after I heard it.” 

It feels like he’s about to hear another of her exaggerated tales, and on most days he’d call her out on it. Now, though, he clings to the distraction with both hands. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“You sure? It’s scary.”

His lips twitch at her somber expression. “I think I can handle it.”

She searches his face a moment longer before shrugging. “If you say so. It starts off with a heist gone wrong, as most of the stories around here do…”


	8. innocence

If he thought one Mihren was a handful to deal with it was because he didn’t know what two would be like. Her sister doesn’t seem to have the same cavalier attitude that typically ends with some sort of fire, but the confident, self-assured aura she carries is uncannily similar. 

And, once again, he wonders how it is that he can feel intimidated by a girl that barely reaches his chin. (Lamitt was the first. Nowadays Alisaie fit the role. Part of him is glad that Mihren’s sister didn’t visit often.) 

“So.” Dark eyes stare him down across the table. “You’re Ardbert.” 

“Aye,” he says in the same even tone. “And you’re Ahri.“

She keeps staring at him. Arms crossed, leaned back against her chair, the very epitome of leisure. He mirrors her, determined not to fidget despite feeling like he’s experiencing the equivalent of ‘meeting the parents.’ _She’ll test you,_ Mihren had said, _but she won’t be mean about it. She takes after our mom—it’s all airs, I promise._

He can practically picture Mihren snickering at this absurd stand-off. She’d gone with Thancred to pick up some food and conveniently left the two of them alone on the House of Splendors terrace. 

He should’ve known. 

Ahri’s eyes narrow as she appraises him, gaze flickering across his body. “What do you know of the culture in Ul’dah?” 

_What._

“What?” he echoes. 

She primly folds her hands on the table, mindful of the steaming cup of tea before her. “The culture in Ul’dah. I’m asking what you know of it. I know Mihren has mentioned our origins to you before.” 

“Aye, but she said your roots are from Ishgard.” 

“So far back that it may as well be ancient history,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We haven’t traded with them in years.” 

“A matter that’s changing,” he adds with a frown. There seems to be an odd chord here, and he files it away to ask about later. “She’s been heavily involved with the restoration efforts.”

_And still braving the Diadem_ , his mind adds. He shoves down the brief flare of irritation. 

“Sure. She’s also been emptying our family’s coffers while she’s at it.” Ahri raises her hands in a placating manner when that earns her a suspicious glare. “I’m not against the effort, mind you. But she’s always been less… restrained, I suppose, with the use of our family’s funds. And ever since she’s been the head of the family it’s…” She shakes her head. “I’m getting off topic. So: Ul’dah.”

They don’t really talk about gil. Anything he needs she provides and any help he can offer is given without question. The unconditional support goes both ways. Family matters, likewise, isn’t a topic they often discuss either. Not that it’s something he’s keen to avoid, but rather something that is rarely in their daily discussions to start with. 

Eyes ever forward. Their shared motto. 

“Not sure what sorts of answers you’re looking for,” he mutters and shifts to get comfortable. This felt like it was going to be a long, drawn-out conversation, and the sun was already in its downward dip and irritably getting into his eyes. “Do you want to know Ul’dah’s history? Its traditions? Because I reckon you’d know better than I about all that.” 

“I want to know what you know about the mercantile culture,” she says. “About our practices, especially those about—”

“Ahri? Rowena’s asking for you.” 

He tilts his head at the interruption and finds Mihren standing in the doorway behind him, arms crossed and peering suspiciously at her sister. “She said you’d know why.” Her eyes narrow further. “Do you have something to tell me?” 

Ahri blinks, and he idly marvels how all traces of the serious persona before him vanishes. 

“No? I don’t know why she’d…” Ahri trails off as understanding seems to dawn. Her eyes widen, and she bolts out of her chair before Ardbert can blink. “Shite. I _knew_ I was forgetting something!” 

Mihren casually steps to the side as her sister blazes past with a brief “I’ll be back!” thrown over her shoulder. The hurried sound of her boots clicking against the stone staircase quickly fades, and he considers it a miracle that she doesn’t trip in her haste. Mihren then eases into the vacant chair left behind, and leans forward on the table to rest her chin in her hand. 

He’s once again subjected to the same, appraising look. This time, though, it’s at least accompanied by a mischievous gleam.

“So.” A teasing smile plays on her lips. “You survived. Unscathed, at that.” 

He gives her a droll look, but the tension in his shoulders eases at her presence. “Why’s it sound like you were expecting a different outcome?” 

“I wasn’t. I know she already likes you.” She idly sips at the lukewarm tea left behind. “But it’s nice to see it confirmed. What’d she ask you about?”

He sighs and sinks further into his chair, then raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Ul’dah, of all things.”

“Ul’dah?”

“Aye. She wanted to know what I knew of its mercantile culture.”

Mihren promptly chokes. 

He patiently waits until she can breathe again to explain what has clearly gone over his head. “Sounds like you know why. Care to share?” 

She waves at him, clearing her throat and still catching her breath, and he’s curious to find that a flush has started to creep up her neck. When she stubbornly avoids eye contact and instead grasps for a napkin, wisps of understanding spark in his head.

“…Was she going to—?” 

“I think so.”

“Does she think we—?”

“Yep.”

He pauses. “…But we haven’t—”

“Nope,” Mihren repeats, and her lips twitch as she tries to smother the smile. “Well, that’s the clearest sign that really does like you. Otherwise that wouldn’t have been the _first thing_ she brought up.” 

He can feel his own cheeks heat up. It’s a topic he’s thought about, sure, but they’ve never discussed it at length and frankly the timing never felt right. 

“She’s bold, I’ll give her that,” he says with a slow exhale. “I can see the family resemblance.” 

“Mm. You should see her at the negotiating table. She’s scarier than Tataru.” 

His eyes soften at the fond look on her face. “You’ve said before that she’s also an adventurer.”

“She is, but rather than primals and wars it’s bandits and ghouls and tomb-crawling for long-lost artifacts. That, and also striking deals with merchants all across Eorzea. Quite frankly I think she got the better deal out of the two of us.”

He doesn’t miss the wistful note in her voice. “She doesn’t have the Echo.”

“No, and thank the Gods for that,” Mihren sighs. Her gaze turns pensive, eyes distant as she stares down into her tea. “Not that I don’t think she couldn’t handle it, but I’d rather she stay out of this hero business.”

He understands the sentiment. It wasn’t all valor and praise and having bards write songs about miraculous victories. It was also regret and sorrow and far more loss than he’d ever prepared for. He knows that, now. 

And so, he also knows why his chest tightens at the sight of her rueful smile. They’d been the same, once—before she’d donned the mantle of a hero. 


	9. scion

  


“What is it that the Scions do, exactly?” he asks as they trek through the ruins. There’s a decently-formed idea tumbling around his head and while he’s fairly confident he has a solid grasp on their duties, he asks anyway. “Is it simply contending with primals? Ensuring peace and prosperity for Eorzea? Or do you just mettle in anything that needs your attention?”

“No to the first. Yes to the second. And pretty much. It’s turned into a lot of ‘save the world’ business lately.”

He frowns at her back. “No to the first? You lot were on your way to a primal when we first met.”

“They don’t have the—ugh. Can you lift me? I think the panel is up there in that alcove.” She points up at the indent in the wall just beyond reach. “I should be able to open the way forward from there.”

He glances at the looming archway before them. The massive door glows a dark, unsettling blue—reminding him of their foray into the Azys Lla laboratories moons ago—and, just like before, prevents them from accessing the rest of the ruins. 

“Can’t we just blast our way through?” he grumbles. “Should be simple enough.” 

“Not unless you want to trigger some age-old defense mechanism. I wasn’t exactly thorough the first time I blazed through here.”

“And? We can handle anything this place throws at us.”

“You don’t know how creative the magi of Mhach were. Last time I fought a wall with a face. Beams came out of its eyes.”

He snorts. “Right. And I still think we should—oi, be careful.” His hands snap out to grab at her hips when she brazenly steps up onto a protruding beam. “That doesn’t look stable enough to hold you." 

She huffs and shoots him an annoyed look over her shoulder, but otherwise lets him guide her back to the floor. He shakes his head; she’d been just about ready to scale the wall without a second thought. 

"Then give me a boost,” she says and dusts off her hands. “And take my word on not disturbing this place. You’re right that we can beat back whatever comes crawling out if we make too much noise, but I’d rather not. The sooner we confirm whether or not those towers are related to the ark, the better. And Gods forbid it’s somehow all linked to the Thirteenth.”

He knows that he and his friends weren’t the first to come to the Source from another shard. Still, he’s always a bit taken-aback by just how many visitors the Source receives—both from the other shards and from the dark between the stars. 

And as if to prove the point of just how strange its visitors can be, the endless line of coffins below them unsettles something raw in his mind. His skin crawls if he looks too long—as though whatever is within isn’t something he should stare directly at. 

“Alright,” he finally says at her waiting, expectant look. He bends one knee, then brings his palms together to form a step. “Come on. And be careful, would you?”

They’ve done this many times over, but it still feels odd launching her anywhere. At his brief nod, her hands come to rest securely on his shoulders while he considers the height and just how much strength is needed to get her up there. 

“Good?” she asks, gently stepping into the space he’s made with his palms.

“Aye. Whenever you’re ready." 

She flashes him a quick, sly smile, and dips to peck him on the lips. "Thanks.” And with a wink, she kicks off the ground just as he surges up. 

The boost is enough. She latches onto the ledge, grunts and grasps at something he can’t see, then hauls herself up and over. He gets a nice view of her legs and arse before she disappears. 

Still wearing shorts. Even in this place. 

“Well?” he calls when the silence stretches. “Find anything useful?”

“I’m not a Mhach expert!” comes the muffled response. “Give me a moment.”

He cranes his head and takes a few steps back, then frowns at the little opening in the wall. There was still no sight of her. “I thought magical relics and artifacts were your area of expertise." 

"They are! Just not these. And you know how I am with doors.”

It probably wasn’t a good idea to be yelling considering what they’d just discussed. The way their voices bounced through the open chamber didn’t help matters. His lips twitch as he considers that—and how much they really care about disturbing whatever is here compared to how much they both enjoyed digging at each other. Regardless, he casts a cursory glance over his shoulder to check. 

The large, sprawling chamber is still and quiet just as before, but with the lineup of coffins he still can’t help but feel like they were disturbing a graveyard. The low-lighting, skeletal décor and ominous red tint to the place didn’t help matters. 

“Aha!” The shout comes just as the door in front of him hisses open. Or hisses and then shimmers and disappears like it hadn’t been there at all. 

He warily eyes the open space in front of him. 

“Ardbert?" 

He keeps his eyes forward. “What?”

"Can you help me get down? And—why are you glaring at the door?”

“It’s not there anymore." 

A pause. "Well, yes, I just opened it.”

He grunts and gestures with his hand. “No, I mean. The door is just gone. Vanished, as though it hadn’t been there to start with. And—oi!” His eyes widen as she leaps off the ledge just as he spares her a glance. He immediately stumbles forward, arms stretched out to catch her before he even registers the movement. 

She lands with a soft ‘oof.’ “Oh. Nice catch.”

His heart thrums as he stares at her. “…You could’ve warned me.”

She just pats his cheek. “I trusted you.”

“Beside the point,” he mumbles without any heat and adjusts his grip. “That could’ve ended with both of us on the floor.”

“But it didn’t. And hey,” she says, and he recognizes the teasing glint in her eye. “Thanks." 

This time he’s prepared when she leans in, and he meets her halfway as she angles her head to kiss him. The hand on his face gently caresses his cheek before sliding to tangle in the short hairs on the back of his neck. His own hands tighten, holding her close. 

In all, the kiss is soft and chaste as they explore each other as though they haven’t dozens of times before. 

And then she teasingly nips at him, teeth lightly grazing his bottom lip. It sends a pleasant jolt straight to his gut, warming his limbs and making his heart soar. Amused, he smiles against her and pulls back, chuckling when she tries to chase his mouth. 

“Hey,” she mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “I was enjoying that.”

“I can tell. But this hardly seems to be a good place to get side tracked.”

She glances at the dark, stretching hallway over his shoulder. Something rattles in the distance, echoing off the walls and down the chamber—sounding suspiciously like a chained, voidsent ghoul—but neither of them move or heed the warning. 

Her shoulders drop with a resigned sigh. “Okay. But we’re picking this up again later.”

And despite his words, he steals one last quick kiss before setting her down. “I’m counting on it.”


	10. awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Izzie is @witchfall's WoL.

The first time he experiences the nonsense that comes with the magickal defenses set up around her house, it’s well into the dead of the night. Muffled cursing floats up from the open window facing the road. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes before irritably dragging himself out of bed. 

Of course it’s one of the nights that she’s out of the house, halfway across the world in Othard. He hopes it isn’t one of the more severe traps; she’d shown him how to disable everything but spells have never been his strength and he really doesn’t want to scrape a poorly-informed burglar off the gravel. 

Or explain to the Yellowjackets that no, sorry sir, the Warrior of Light didn’t inadvertently murder someone at her doorstep. 

He stumbles down the stairs, flicks the light on, and nudges open the door. And stares as one of her friends wrestles with the mess of writhing vines crawling up her legs, rooting her in place. 

“Izzie,” he greets without batting an eye. “You alright?”

Her ears flatten against her head and her eyes snap in his direction, but recognition immediately loosens her stance. “Finally! I thought I’d be stuck here all night. Help me out of these, would you?”

He steps out into the night with the door sliding shut at his back, mindful of the other cantrips and glyphs he knows are hidden in the grass. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking a midnight stroll through Mihren’s yard,” she drones. “What’s it look like?”

“Like you stepped in something you shouldn’t have. Don’t you know what she has set up around here?” 

“She said she turned them all off!” He swears he can see her tail poof up in the night. “Are you going to help me or not?”

He warily eyes the vines tangled around her legs. None of them are barbed and the grip doesn’t seem overly tight. More of a nuisance, he figures. “Wait here.” 

Using an axe was out of the question. He didn’t want to accidentally sever a limb right alongside the greenery. The knives in the kitchen weren’t the right tool either—and something told him Mihren would talk his ear off for even considering them—so he settles for something out of his own armory. A simple, sharp dagger would be enough.

Izzie, apparently, comes to a similar conclusion, and he returns to find her irritably slicing at the restraints wrapped around her left leg. “Why won’t this stupid thing—” 

“Hold still,” he orders, then kneels beside her and grabs the closest vine. It’s easy enough to slice through, and the sharp steel in his hand cuts through the strand like butter. The problem presents itself as soon as the sawn-off piece of plant hits the ground and withers. Izzie recognizes the issue just as he does.

“They’re growing back!” 

He sits back on his haunches as the vines stretch further up her body as though out of spite. “I can see that.” 

She angrily slices off another chunk wrapped around her waist. The empty space is almost immediately replaced with two smaller, thinner strands. 

“Persistent creepers, aren’t they,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Persistent _what?_ ” 

He gestures at the mass of vines now tangled all around by her feet, covering her boots and up to her knees. It grows each time she slices off a piece. 

He grabs her wrist when she moves to do it again. “Stop. You’ll be part of the yard at this rate.”

“Got any bright ideas then?” She glares down at him, but loosens her grip—which is good, considering she looked seconds away from treating her predicament as one would approach the thick foliage of a jungle. “Don’t you know how to turn this off?”

He should. But the longer he wracks his brain for the instructions Mihren left, the more he realizes that no, he doesn’t remember a thing she said—at least not for this particular trap. 

And it shows on his face.

Izzie groans. “Great. So I’m stuck here.”

“I can call her back.”

Her tail twitches. “To see this? She’d die of laughter before she helped us.” 

That pulls a small smile out of him. But some part of him agrees, because he moves on from that option almost just as quick. She didn’t need more ammunition to tease him with. 

“G’raha might be of help,” he mulls. “Last I heard from Tataru, he was in Limsa Lominsa on Scion business.”

At that, Izzie stiffens. The heated glare returns to her face, though this time it’s accompanied by a slight blush that even he can see in the dim light. “No.” 

“No?”

“No. We can get out of this ourselves.” 

They don’t get out of it themselves. 

**. . .**

G’raha, to his credit, does an admirable job of keeping a straight face. For at least the first minute. 

“Before you ask,” Izzie mutters, “This is all Mihren’s fault.” 

“I’m sure.” G’raha’s eyes glitter with amusement as he enters the yard. “Though this is most certainly not what I was expecting when you mentioned ‘magical troubles.”

Ardbert shrugs and stands off to the side. “Describes the problem well enough.” 

Izzie stubbornly refuses to meet G’raha’s gaze as he inspects the vines, standing with her arms crossed and back straight. Somehow, she manages to make it look like she had the entire matter under control, as though _it was my idea to be in this situation, thank you very much_ , and not like she was mere minutes away from looking suspiciously like the leafmen in Il Mheg. 

Ardbert frowns as the thought crosses his mind. The trap had some striking similarities. 

“Ah. It seems our dear friend Feo Ul decided to share some pixie knowledge after all.” G’raha straightens out and tilts his head in thought. “These are curious modifications, though.” 

“I’m sure it’s very fascinating,” Izzie mutters under her breath. “Can you get me out?”

“Of course.” G’raha’s brows furrow in concentration. One snap of the fingers later, the restraints slide down Izzie’s legs and back into the bushes lining the gravel path like an obedient dog. Her heated glare follows them the entire way back. 

Ardbert clears his throat. “Now that that’s settled. What were you doing here anyway? Especially ‘round this time of night.”

“Her house was the closest,” Izzie says with a shrug. 

He considers her a moment before his attention flickers to G’raha. Like Izzie, there were dark circles under his eyes and a weariness settled over his shoulders. Clearly tired, despite the distracted way the man smiled at her. 

Ardbert sighs and beckons them in. “Come on, both of you. Gods know there’s more than enough room in here for all of us.”


	11. tea

The Umineko Teahouse never disappoints. The Shiokaze Hostelry, likewise, always provides delicious food, fine wine, and a place for adventurers to relax. There’s never a quiet moment and a seemingly endless stream of foot traffic, and if she listens close enough she can hear a group downstairs celebrate the downing of a hunt mark. 

Still, despite the raucous laughter below she can’t help but get lost in thought. 

A leg nudging hers under the table snaps her back to reality. "Tea not to your liking?" Ardbert asks, staring at her over the rim of his cup. 

It's not often that she hides her thoughts or emotions from anyone, and rarely ever from him, but sometimes his ability to read her like an open book feels like a double edged sword. She knows he’ll understand either way—whether or not she wants to share whatever it is that he often catches her pondering—and wouldn’t push the issue if she otherwise remains quiet.

She sets the cup down with a soft clink. "No, it's good."

He considers her before his gaze flickers to the thin sticks left on the plate between them. "Am I running down to get more dango?"

"My blood will turn to sugar if you keep spoiling me like this."

"You're the one who keeps asking each time we visit," he points out, lifting his cup as emphasis. "I'm only doing as I'm told."

That pulls a smile out of her. But it must not be wide enough because he eventually sighs. "Alright, out with it. What's bothering you?"

"Not...bothering, exactly. I was just remembering my mother.” 

His brows furrow, but his posture relaxes a degree. She idly wonders what he thought she’d been worrying over. "You never speak of her."

"No," she agrees. "But the tea reminded me of her. The citrus scent in particular—it was her favorite. She'd drink it during our etiquette lessons. Always, without fail, and regardless of the season. The smell of it would waft around and linger in the room all day."

"Etiquette lessons?" 

She idly stirs the spoon and watches as the darker bits of the brew swirl at the bottom. "How to be a lady. How to sit, how to walk, how to barter, how to eat at the dinner table. And on and on."

"Sounds like a bother," he mumbles under his breath and shifts in his seat. "I never understood why noble folk overcomplicated all that."

“You'd be surprised at how structured it can be. And she was always disappointed when I got distracted. Mihren, she’d say—" her voice rises in mimicry, "—you’ll never find a husband if you don’t maintain your image. Nor will any of the other women will respect you! This family didn't toil for generations just for you to—" 

She cuts off, purses her lips, and glares down at the table. "Sorry. I don't mean to rant."

Amusement plays across his face as he waves off the apology. "By all means. You don’t often speak about this."

“Because my mother's expectations are a malm high even from the grave.” She takes another sip and lets the flavor sit on her tongue before glancing at him. “Did your parents have expectations too?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “It was learning my father's trade. Learning how to be a sailor. Making sure my mother was cared for and helping her with anything that needed doing. The sorts of things you'd expect of a small family by the sea."

"I could see you as a sailor."

The corner of his mouth turns up. "Could you?"

"Easily." A stray thought snags itself in her brain, and she asks it without thinking. "Could you sail a ship on your own?"

He huffs. "Gods, no. Do you know how much rope work goes into all that?"

"No," she says, and mirrors his amused smile. "What about a small ship?"

"A boat, you mean?"

"Sure."

"Then...yes, I suppose." He arches a brow and leans forward on the table. "Why, have you got one hidden away somewhere?"

She leans forward as well, dropping her voice to a conspiratory hush. "And if I did? Would you sail away with me?"

The teasing glint slowly fades from his eyes as he considers her. It all came out of her mouth as a jest, but something in her tone must give her away. 

"Do you want me to?" he asks then, voice soft as he searches her face. 

It feels like something is digging into her heart, needling itself between her ribs. Something familiar, made dull from all the times it's tried to nestle into the hollow of her chest. ‘If only,’ she recognizes. 

‘If only’—the old, familiar thought that's rattled far too often in her head. More often now, ever since he entered her life. 

She sucks in a slow breath and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. "If that was in the cards for us,” she murmurs, and her throat feels too tight, as though she’s swallowed down a stone, “then yes. But…"

Her lips thin. But, but, but. There was always a ‘but.’ 

The light squeeze she gets back from him, at least, eases some of the burning irritation she feels. 

"I know," he says quietly, rubbing a thumb against her skin. Then, in a lighter tone: “And mayhaps it’s all for the better—something tells me you’d make a poor sailor.” 

That pulls a small laugh out of her. “I told you I tried the pirate life once, right?”

“Aye,” he snickers, “and how that turned out. Face it: a lady like you? Not meant for the open sea.” 

“Ha. Keep that up and I’ll show you just what this lady is meant for,” she says and reaches for her teacup again. Even so, she can’t hide the relieved smile, happy to move past the flash of wistful bitterness. There was no point in bemoaning the cards they’ve been given.

Still. She likes to think that perhaps, in another life, they get to experience that boundless sort of freedom.


	12. outrage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Izzie is @witchfall's WoL.

“This is ridiculous,” she pants out just as the spectre dissolves into aether. “Five minutes. Just for _five minutes_ I would like for things to stay fixed.” 

Beside her, Izzie’s lips thin as she neatly returns an arrow to the quiver hanging securely across her back. “Fat chance of that. Our luck is shite.” 

“Sure, but this is borderline absurd.” 

A faint taste of ash sits thick on her tongue. Every other breath brings with it a whiff of smoke and a sinking feeling in her stomach that she can’t shake. It worsens each time they cut through more of the warriors coming after their heads. 

Izzie’s gaze remains solidly fixed on the Crystal Tower in the distance. A quiet, determined air hangs about her, and once Feo Ul opens the way forward, she blazes on ahead without a word.

Mihren shares a pointed look with Thancred. 

They follow her through the portal. 

. . .

The run through Il Mheg is more of the same. It’s hard to focus with literal fireballs falling out of the sky, but at some point she feels more than sees Ardbert’s presence linger at the edge of the battle. A quick, stolen sidelong glance confirms it, and he gives her a grim nod when their eyes lock. 

“You!” Izzie’s angry screech rings through the air and snags her attention like a hook in the wind.

Her head snaps in Izzie’s direction just as Ardbert barks, “Get down!”

She drops to the ground just as a sword whizzes through the air above her. The gust brushes her hair and makes her stomach drop; the split-second distraction nearly cost her head. She rolls over with her fingertips tingling, ready to blast back the spectre looming above with a spell.

Three shots ring out in quick succession before she can. Her assailant stumbles back with a gaping hole in its chest, then violently explodes into aether. Thancred is beside her in the next heartbeat, dragging her up by the arm and already focusing on the next group of spectres down the path. 

“You alright?”

“Thanks. And yes.” But Izzie’s yell rings incessantly through her head, and she steps around him until her eyes land on her friend. She finds the bard glaring heatedly at the tall fuath they’d fought in Dhon Mheg, posture stiff and seconds from peppering him full of arrows. 

“Wait!” Ryne calls out, dashing forward with her hands outstretched. “They’re here to help!” 

“Like they helped last time?” 

Another high pitched shrill rings through the air. Mihren eyes the portals cutting into existence around them and grips her staff tighter. “Izzie…” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Thancred says, already moving ahead. “The others are likely ahead. Friend or foe, we must keep moving.” 

“Look!” Ryne points, voice laced with worry. “I think I just saw the Crystal Tower flash!”

Izzie’s laser-like focus shifts at that. 

. . . 

Fifteen minutes and dozens of spectres later, the dread creeping up her spine doesn’t leave. Even as she and Izzie sprint directly towards the Crystarium with the sounds of battle biting at their heels, the incessant worry churning her gut remains there.

“Izzie?” she asks as the tower grows closer. “Once we get there—”

“It’s not him, you know.” 

Her mouth snaps shut. “…I know that.”

“Do you?” Izzie’s piercing gaze is accusing as they slow to a stop just before the gates. 

Twin flares of irritation and defensiveness course through her, fueling the anxiety already gnawing at her nerves. “I just want us to try, okay? It’s still his body.”

Another shrill cuts through the air just as Izzie opens her mouth. Her eyes snap in the direction of the tower. “We need to go.” She’s off before Mihren can get another word in. 

It’s not a snub—she knows exactly where Izzie’s focus is and why her demeanor has changed. Still, knowing makes it no easier in swallowing down the rising bile in her throat. 

“She’s right you know,” comes the quiet voice of Ardbert. 

“Don’t.”

“When it comes down to it—”

“Don’t,” she repeats softly. “Please.” 

He quiets at that.

Izzie’s nearly across the bridge by the time she gets her feet moving. 


	13. caress (E)

  


He trails kisses down her chest, across her stomach, fingertips brushing lightly across her skin. His touch is gentle and teasing and just shy of what she wants that she knows it’s all on purpose. 

She breathes out a whine, frustration peaking when he dips lower, nipping at her thighs. It gets to where she digs her heels onto the bed, arches her back, and threads her fingers through his hair to spur him on—only to feel his arms slide under her thighs to hold her still. 

“I swear,” she breathes when she feels him smile against her skin, “If you don’t put that mouth to use—”

It earns her another nip. This time, she feels his teeth graze against her inner thigh. 

“Hey—”

“Vocal as ever,” he murmurs, then kisses her abdomen and slowly works his way back, muscles rolling as he moves to hold himself above her. 

She hooks a thigh around his waist and pulls him in until every line of his body is flush against her. “I’m just telling you what I want.”

“Think I’ve got a decent idea of that." 

“Do you?”

His eyes are half-lidded in amusement, one corner of his lips turned up. “Haven’t heard any complaints yet.” 

"Then are you waiting on a formal invitation? Because I can be more convincing.” 

He just grins as she light scrapes her nails across his shoulder, and dips to slant his mouth against hers.

. . . 

Later, as she lays in the crook of his arm and traces a finger up his chest, she says, “Imagine if we could be this lazy every day.”

He huffs out a short laugh. “I’d rather not.” 

“What, lounging about an island doesn’t sound appealing to you?”

“For a few days it might. But any longer and I’d go mad from boredom.”

“Hmm.” She props herself up on an elbow and gazes down at him—at the relaxed look on his face and languid way he stretches out across the bed. “I don’t know. I think it’d be nice to let someone else worry about the world for a change.” 

He laces his fingers behind his head and cracks an eye open. “You’d trust someone else with that?”

“I’d like to, on some days. But it’s…” she purses her lips. 

“A hard habit to break?” 

“I’m not sure it’s a ‘habit,’ exactly.” It was less about trust and more about knowing, she figures—knowing that she could’ve done something to help and instead chose to sit back and watch. The awareness of inaction alone would eat away until she got right back in the thick of things. 

She groans and buries her face in the pillow. “You’re right. I’d probably go mad in a few days of nothing, too. Can’t stay away even if I tried…” 

“Hope you know I only caught about half of that,” comes the amused reply. “But I think I got the gist.” 

She raises her head just enough to glare at him. “I said you’re right.”

“What was that?” 

“I said you’re—” she cuts off at the sight of a smirk growing on his face. “You heard me the first time!” 

“Did I?” he says with a nonchalance way too deliberate. “I couldn’t be too sure.” 

She drops her head on the pillow again. “Arse.” 

And when he laughs at that, she knows full well that he heard her the first time. 


	14. instinct

“This won’t work.”

“Not with that attitude, it won’t.”

“Does it matter? It’s not as though the magic can hear me.”

“No, but a good amount of spellcasting comes from instinct,” she says, raising a single finger. “You have to believe you can do it.”

That earns her an eye-roll. “It’s not the believing that’s the problem, I can tell you that much.”

She purses her lips and thinks for a moment. “Give me your hands.” 

“Why?”

“Come on. Just trust me.”

And despite his grumbling—as he has been for the past fifteen minutes—he indulges her. She shifts until they’re sitting knee to knee, then cradles his hands with hers.

“Now close your eyes. And don’t give me that suspicious look,” she tuts when his eyes narrow a fraction. “I promise I’m not planning anything.”

She’s only guided others through spells a handful of times. Each person required a different approach. And although each guild she’s learned from has their own methods of teaching, she knows that adapting to the person rather than forcing them to learn a certain way achieves the best results.

And so she nurses the comfortable silence between them like one would nurse a fine drink, content to let the sound of distant birds and rustle of tall grass ground them both in the environment. Gyr Abania, despite its dryness, is conductive to their specific needs right now: namely, being naturally predisposed towards fire-and-earth-aspected aether. 

Sitting still and simply existing in a space—focusing on the lull between heartbeats—has always been a way to center her aether. Ardbert, to his credit, doesn’t fidget with impatience, but she can feel the moment his waiting turns expectant. 

“Can you feel the sun beating down on your back?” she finally asks, still holding both his hands. 

He grunts. “Hard not to. It’s bloody hot out here as always.”

“Do you feel how it sinks through your clothes to warm your skin?”

“As it bakes me, you mean?”

She reaches forward to flick at his forehead. Her finger hits air; he’s already leaning back, having sensed her intent far before she tried it.

“Play along,” she says, narrowing her eyes at the self-satisfied smirk. “I promise this will work.”

He gives her another droll look, weighs how serious she actually is, then sighs heavily—as though she’s asked for an impossible task—but quietens down once more. Satisfied, she channels a bit of aether from her hands, just enough that it slides across his skin and slips through his fingers. 

“Feel that?”

“Aye.”

“Okay. Focus on your heartbeat… got the rhythm?” At his nod, she continues with, “Now I want you to picture a small flame flickering in the darkness, so dim it’s nearly out. Like… hm. Like the lights in Limsa during a storm." 

He arches a brow. "That’s a dreary image.”

“Sure is. Remember how the lanterns sway with the gales?” She slips more aether between his fingers, coaxing it into a ball between his palms. “And how the decks may as well be pitch black whenever those sorts of storms hit?”

“I remember nearly breaking my neck trying to get from the plaza.” A frown pulls on his lips as she slowly pulls his hands apart. “What are you doing?”

“Just giving this a little spark. Imagine the flame growing with every heartbeat now—a little at a time, bit by bit.”

“Am I still in the storm?”

“Yes. What would you do to keep the flame going?”

“Take it inside, for one,” he mutters. “Or… shield it, I suppose.” 

_There it is._ She smiles with satisfaction as the air around them subtly shifts. Still, it is never good to rush spellwork, so she lets a few more moments pass just to be sure. 

“Is the flame any brighter?” 

"It is in my head,” he mumbles, brows pinched in concentration. “How long am I to do this for?”

"Open your eyes.”

He does. And at the sight of her encouraging smile and nod, they flit down to his hands. A small, flickering flame reminiscent of a Will-o’-the-wisp floats gingerly between his palms, radiating heat.

Her smile grows as he stares down at it in wonder. “See? Instinct. You just needed to do it your way.”


	15. you

“You’ve got that look again.” 

She huffs and bends at the waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows. “How do you know? You can’t even see my face right now.”

“I just do.”

She clicks her tongue and sifts through the sand with her fingers. It’s not often she revisits the Ruby Sea, but a beach is a beach and her shell collection at home is starting to look rather monotonous. Eorzea’s shores only had so many varieties.

“It’s nothing,” she says and shuffles further into the shimmering water, squinting against the sun. “Just my mind wandering. Can you help me?”

“And risk both of us getting pecked by the vultures perched above?”

“Please. They’re not vultures. And they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“Wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he mutters and cranes his head at the steep cliff. Two of the large birds sit right where he’d last laid eyes on them—on a tree root precariously jutting out of craggy rock. “I’ve yet to come across a seabird that won’t peck your eye out the moment you look away. Doubt their audacity and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”

"Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she mumbles under her breath and wades in further, now up to her thighs. The water is warm as it laps at her skin, and pleasantly calm compared to the oft churning waters of La Noscea. 

“You’re going to end up swimming at this rate,” Ardbert pipes up again.

“That’s alright.”

“With all that on?”

Her lips curl up, but she doesn’t turn around. “If you want me out of my clothes you know you can just ask.”

A significant pause follows. Then, “…I’d rather you didn’t. At least not around here.”

“Because of the birds?”

“No, not because of the—” he groans when he realizes she’s joking. “Gods, you’re terrible.”

She snickers. “And yet you still love me." 

"Doesn’t make you less of a menace,” he mutters. “Because of the pirates, you daft girl." 

"I don’t know,” she hums, straightening out and raising a hand to inspect a shell against the sun. “I’m starting to think a swim might actually be a good idea." 

Another pause follows. Longer than the last. Just as she figures his attention has slid back to the birds, a dull thunk of something hitting the sand fills the space. 

She throws a glance over her shoulder just in time to see him sprinting at her with a smirk. "Wait. No, I wasn’t serious—!”

He closes the distance in record speed, arms looping around her waist before she gets another word out. And with a neat pivot, he falls backwards into the water and dunks them both. 


	16. amaurot

He dreams of Amaurot sometimes. 

The city is always obscured by a haze. All he sees is a wobbly mirage in the shape of something he knows, and perpetually blurry to his eyes regardless of how hard he tries to focus. It’s as though he’s stranded in a desert and witnessing it through heat waves from afar, and no matter how many steps he takes the distance doesn’t change. 

Frustration gnaws at him each time this happens. There’s a strange urgency hastening his steps—as though he’s late for a reason he can’t put his finger on—and each and every time he starts to grasp at why he’s in such a rush, awareness creeps up and snatches the answer away. 

Worse, the odd jumble of emotions always transfers over from the dreamstate, and he constantly comes out of it feeling dazed and disoriented as though he’d been submerged for hours. 

The light, when he cracks open his eyes, is blinding—and his mind slogs through the process of remembering where he is. 

The scattered canopy of Gridania looks strange. Foreign, as though he’s seeing it for the first time through fresh eyes. The scratchy grass under his hand and the treebark at his back feel dull and distant against his senses, so much so that for a terrible moment he fears he’s gone back to being a shade. 

But the flash of panic and unfamiliarity dissipates as soon as he feels movement beside him. It snaps him back to reality so quickly he forgets to breathe. 

“Hey,” she manages mid-yawn, voice still thick with sleep. “Same dream again?”

He hisses out a long gust of air, trying to center himself. “Same dream.” 

“It’s still in the distance for you too, isn’t it.” And that she doesn’t pose it as a question removes any suspicions he has. “Do you think we’re forgetting something important?” 

“More like we’re trying to remember it.” Rather adamantly, too, given how frequent the dream comes. “I only wish I knew what. Maybe then we’d get some sleep. Or closure, at the very least—instead of these maddening visions.” 

She hums thoughtfully and rolls her neck, working out the kinks. “Do you think we’ll ever remember it, whatever it is? Or if we should remember it all? Because I wonder, sometimes…” 

He’s not sure how to answer that. The knee-jerk reaction is a resounding ‘yes,’ but the longer he thinks on it the more uncertain he becomes. It feels important—the subtle itch at the back of his head insists as much. But it also feels strange, alien, in the same way the Echo presents another’s memories to him. 

He knows as much that this is all from his life as Azem. 

But he also knows he’s not Azem. Not anymore. Not for ages. 

“We could revisit,” comes the quiet offer, just barely over the rustle of leaves. “I think it’s all still standing, though I’m not sure for how much longer. It might help with… whatever this is.” 

The question churns up emotions he’s since decided to lay to rest. “No,” he murmurs back, voice tight. “Better to leave that all buried.”

She visibly relaxes. “Okay.” 

He stretches his legs out with a deep sigh and tilts his head back, resting it against the tree trunk. The forest around them is as calm as it was before, and he idly watches the light scatter among the treetops. 

She yawns once more and leans her head against his shoulder, evidently content to leave it all be. It’s a grounding gesture; his focus hones in on the warmth of her skin, the weight of her pressed against his side, and not the scattered direction his thoughts have taken him. 


	17. family

He’s still not sure how post moogles are able to locate their targets so consistently. It’s not as though they announce their presence whenever they enter a city-state. Still, the Adventurers’ Guild in Gridania is a common enough place that he barely blinks when their dinner is interrupted by another delivery. Mihren accepts the missive with a polite smile and a wave while he bites into another sandwich. 

Eorzea’s cuisine isn’t something he had the chance to indulge in before—didn’t have the time not to mention the will—but now that there’s nothing vying for his attention, he’s made it a goal to try a bit of everything. 

The taste is similar enough to what he’s used to from Norvrandt. The spices, however, still escape him. He idly chews and tries to place the flavor while the moogle flies up and away with a happy spin, pom bouncing as it floats out of the building. 

“Ugh.” He’s snapped out of his thoughts when she groans and drops her head on the table with a light thunk. “I can’t believe she’d do this.”

He eyes the piece of parchment held loosely in her hands. “Your sister?” he wagers. 

“Yes,” she mumbles into her arms. “Again. She’s struck another business deal. And is only now letting me know of it.”

“And that’s a bad thing because…?”

“It’s with a merchant family in Ul’dah.” 

He arches a brow, tears off another piece of bread, and pops it in his mouth. 

“It’s the House of the Desert Iris. They want to see both of us,” she adds at his expectant silence, raising her head just enough that he can see annoyance flash across her face. None of it directed at him, of course, but he can’t help the spark of fondness that pierces through him. Always wearing her emotions on her sleeve. 

“Both of us as in you and your sister?”

“Yes. It’s more of a formality than anything since according to her—” she waves the piece of paper, “—everything else has already been handled.” 

“So what’s drawing your ire about this?”

“They’re—to be terribly blunt—not good people. They’re not murderers or anything of the sort, but the rumors surrounding them aren’t entirely baseless. And you know how Ul’dah operates.”

He doesn’t, not really, but her point is easy enough to infer. “So you’re worried. All the more reason to go. The solution sounds simple enough to me.”

She straightens out in her seat with a glare. “Right, and I’ve already decided that I’m going. They know what I am but the reminder is warranted.” The piece of parchment between her fingers goes up in a sharp burst of flame, startling the adventurers a table over. His eyes flit in their direction, lips quirking up at the sight. 

“But my issue with all this,” she continues without missing a beat, dusting the ash off her hands, “is that she keeps doing this without telling me. Granted I don’t outright ask her to keep me informed…” she purses her lips and glares at the last bits of her meal. 

He casually takes a sip of water while she works through whatever internal debate the missive has churned up, and watches the emotions play across her face. 

Eventually, she deflates. “I wish she’d talk to me more.” Her gaze snaps back to him, brows pinched together. “Will you come with us? With me?” 

He sets the cup down. “To this meeting?” 

She nods. 

“If you want. Can’t promise I’ll be much help on the business front, though.”

A line of tension leaves her. “That’s alright. Just having you there is enough. Thank you.” 


	18. blessing

“Do you think the Echo is a blessing or a curse?” she asks one morning as she tightens the fastenings on his armor, fingertips gliding over the rough material in a well-rehearsed manner. 

He yawns and lifts an arm when she prods at his side. “Don’t know. It depends on the day. And on who you ask.”

“Well, how do you feel about it today?” 

“You’re rather awake this morning,“ he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. "What brought this on?”

“Just curious. And I like to hear your thoughts on things.”

“Despite not listening half the time?”

“Hey.” She firmly tugs on a clasp by his ribs, cinching the material and making him grunt. “I do listen. I just do things my own way every now and then.”

_More like always_ , he thinks dryly and turns when she nudges at him again. “I’d say it’s a blessing then, considering the plan for today.” 

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“Shouldn’t I be?” 

“Hopefully, no. But also I try not to expect the worst,” she says with a slight frown, finishing up and resting both hands on his shoulders. “I almost forgot how you look in this. It’s much bulkier than Tataru’s set. Does it still sit alright?”

He gives an experimental roll of his shoulders. Twists his torso a few times. She takes a step back and watches with a critical eye as he tests his range of movement. 

“Feels fine to me,” he finally declares, straightening out with one last stretch. Tataru’s gear is finely made and he’s since gotten used to it, but putting on his old gear felt like slipping into a second skin. It’s comfortable, familiar, and well-worn—he’s long lost count of how many battles it has seen him through. 

“Glad to hear it.” She gives a satisfied nod, then crosses the room to rummage in her closet. “I should be able to join you mid-way through the patrol. Lyse mentioned there’s been some unexpected developments, though, so I’m to see her first.” Her voice goes muffled as she steps further into the closet. He hears the sound of hangers clacking together. “Do you remember what I told you about the empire’s weaponry? What models to expect, if any show?” 

“Aye. And I remember enough of them from Bozja.” 

The brief stretch of silence lets him know she caught the sour note in his voice. 

“It won’t be like that,” she tells him, peeking out from the closet. “Truly, it should be a quiet patrol. And that’s not just me being naively optimistic. Alphinaud has since been keeping up with the missives from Raubahn—you can ask him yourself, if you’re worried.”

“No need,” he mutters and busies himself with his gauntlets, flexing his fingers. “I believe you.” 

But sometimes he wonders just how she’s made it this far with that sort of mindset. Granted he’s also in the habit of expecting the best in people and things, and giving second and third and even fourth chances—but that practice has since been tempered. 

“Okay,” she says, eyeing him for a moment longer before ducking back into the closet. "Thank you. Feel free to use the linkshell should anything happen. Not that you need telling, but be careful regardless.”

“Duly noted.” And with one last glance over in the mirror, he heads for the door. But he doesn’t get far, stopping at the sound of her grumbling under her breath. 

His gaze slides back to the room. She’s taken up the same spot in front of the mirror as he had seconds ago, though this time fumbling with the armor she’d had made nearly a moon ago. The sight of her twisting and trying to tie together two incorrect pieces would be comical if it wasn’t as worrying in equal measure.

She jolts when he enters the frame behind her. “Oh. You’re still here." 

"Turn around,” he says, gesturing with his finger. “I’ll help.”

“It’s alright. You’ll be late if—”

"They can wait. Turn around." 

Her mouth snaps shut. She holds his gaze in the mirror, eyes bright and curious, then slowly turns to face him.

His practiced fingers fly over the various clasps and fastenings with ease, figuring out the set within moments. 

"Huh. You’re good at this.”

He grabs her hips and turns her, then gets to work again. "Armor is armor. There are only so many ways it can be worn.”

“It’s too heavy,” she mumbles. “And clunky. I feel like a turtle.”

“You grow used to it.” Then he pauses, hands hovering over the belt at her waist. “Though if it’s that much of a hindrance…”

“No. I promised you that I’d wear it.”

He frowns at the stubborn look on her face. “And while I appreciate your word, I’d be far more reassured with you being able to move freely. If—”

“Ardbert.” She rests a hand over his. “I said I promised you. It’s different from what I’m used to, yes, but it’s hardly something to hold me back. I’m just complaining.”

Still, he hesitates. “If you’re certain…” 

“I am,” she says with a small smile, and his gaze softens at the sight. “Promise. Now come on, or we really will be late.” 


	19. apart

  


Thancred doesn’t pull his punches. 

Ardbert has known this since day one. And while he’s glad the scion isn’t holding back, he also can’t help but feel like there’s something else being worked out here given the ferocity of the attacks. 

He lifts his arms to parry another blow. The impact of the gunblade hitting his axe sends sparks flying and rattles his teeth all the way down his spine. But whereas Thancred excels in mobility, Ardbert wins out in strength, and with a direct hit like this he knows he has the advantage. He sets his jaw, plants his feet, and forces his opponent back.

“Got something you want to discuss?” he asks in the lull that follows. 

Thancred arches a brow. “Thought we already are.” 

Ardbert exhales and adjusts his footing. “Right, then.”

The spar drags well into the afternoon.

. . .

Later, as they retire to the shade of the town’s towers, he considers what might be souring the air between them. He hasn’t insulted anyone—at least not to his knowledge—and they’ve since put the scuffle at the Dravanian Forelands to rest. 

While he ponders if he’s unknowingly committed some sort of Eorzean faux paus, Thancred settles in the space at an arm’s length to his right. The man wipes the sweat from his brow, pulls out a canteen, and takes a long swig of it. The silence settles heavily in the space between them, charged and tense in a way that has Ardbert coiled as though he’s gearing for a fight.

“I haven’t had a spar like that in some time,” Thancred finally says, gaze fixed on a cluster of jutting crystals in the hills ahead. “You certainly know how to put someone through their paces.”

Ardbert exhales slowly as some of the tension leaves him. “The feeling’s mutual.” A brief pause. “I can only imagine what you’d be like had you the Echo as well.”

“Ah. A blessing I would surely pass on given the choice. Fainting mid-battle doesn’t sound appealing in the least, thank you kindly.”

That pulls a small smile from him. Perhaps he’s misreading things? “T'is a fickle gift—if one would call it that.”

“Most would.”

He can sense the man working towards something, talking around the subject. Could practically hear the question sitting at the tip of Thancred’s tongue. He just can’t figure out the end goal here, and can’t pinpoint the cause of the hesitation to begin with. 

And after another painfully prolonged silence, he sighs. “You’ve a question to ask. Ask it.”

Thancred gives him a sidelong look and a wry smile. “Please. I’m trying not to be a boor.”

“To spare my sensibilities?” Ardbert snorts. “Just ask and be done with it.”

“If you so insist.” Thancred clears his throat. “What is it like? The resurrection part of the Echo, I mean.” He hazards another careful, measured glance at Ardbert. “If you care to share. I understand it can be a private matter.”

How do you explain the Echo to someone who doesn’t have it? Some parts are self-explanatory and easily relatable, he figures—such as the second wind and burst of strength it grants. But returning from death? The sensation of being woven back together, piece by piece, until you resembled the shape of who you were prior? It was all much more than simply waking from a dreamless slumber. 

“It depends,” Ardbert says slowly, leaning forward on his elbows. “The recoveries differ depending on the severity of injury. Some take mere moments to return from. Others… are not so simple to shrug off. ” 

Thancred weighs his answers with a solemn look. “Do you remember them all?”

“No.”

He goes silent at that. Ardbert doesn’t blame him. The implications of missing memories isn’t something he cares to think about either—out of necessity more than anything. Remembering trauma isn’t a pleasant experience. Not for the mind. Not for the body. And as someone who’s passed through death, full and true, he knows better than most what sorts of scars that experience can leave on a person. 

Moments like that leave their mark. They dig deep into the psyche despite the Echo’s insistence of spiriting it all away, and to this day Ardbert finds himself flinching to some deathblows more than others with no rhyme or reason to it all. 

He sighs deeply and turns his head to the setting sun and its warmth, gaze distant and pensive. “Care if I ask a question of my own?”

“By all means. Fair’s fair.”

“Why the curiosity? If you’ve no interest in it all.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Thancred mull over the question. “Because,” he eventually starts, and there’s a tired note there now, “I find that despite not truly wanting it, I sometimes wonder at how much more I would be able to do. How much more capable I would be.“ He pauses then, as if weighing the next words carefully. "And… at times, how I’d be able to traverse the shards as you and Mihren do.”

And like a gear sliding into place, it all clicks. The frustration. The hidden note of envy. 

“The girl from the Crystarium,” Ardbert notes quietly. “You miss her.” 

The smile Thancred gives him is weary—but true. “Perhaps,” he murmurs. “But we all miss someone.”


	20. want (E)

The alleys of Ul’dah are a maze. Between the fireworks lighting up the night sky, the warmth jetting through his veins, and pleasant haze hanging over his mind, he’s since lost count of how many twists and turns she’s pulled him through. 

It doesn’t matter. The moment she stops in a secluded corner and turns to him with a sly smile, he’s got her pinned against the stone wall with his hungry mouth at her throat. 

“Someone’s impatient,” she breathes out a laugh, tilting her head. “Didn’t think I took that long to find us a spot.”

Rather than reply, he sucks at the soft junction of her neck and slides both hands under her shirt to grip her waist. She shudders against him, body running hot and clutching at his shoulders as he works a thigh between her legs. 

It’s not the first time they’ve snuck from a celebration to share a private moment together. It definitely won’t be the last, but it’s the first time they’ve decided to risk something like this in public. 

When he kisses a hot line up her jaw, she cups the back of his neck to tangle her fingers in his hair—and tugs. Air hisses past his teeth. A hot jolt shoots straight to his belly, curling his toes.

Then she murmurs, “I want to taste you,” against his jaw, and his brain screeches to a halt for half a second. He feels his entire body flush when she nudges him away and drops to her knees. 

"Are you sure? I don’t- I mean if you-” He stutters when her hands slide up his thighs, and despite his words he can’t help but appreciate how she looks before him. His mind immediately supplies a dozen images of her, and her mouth, and how those lovely lips would look wrapped around his cock—and the complaints die on his tongue. 

“Quite sure.” Her hands fiddle with the strings at the seam of his pants, but her eyes are clear. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” he breathes, then leans forward to rest an arm on the wall behind her, one hand sliding into her hair. 

She smiles and tugs on his trousers, then wraps a firm hand around his hard length and pulls it free. His breath hitches when she pumps him a few times. His pupils dilate when he feels her breath brush past his heated skin, and even in the lowlight of the alley, he catches the mischievous spark reflecting in her eyes as she licks a long, slow line from base to tip. 

He bites back a curse as it sends another thrill down his spine. His fingers tighten in her hair. “Mihr…" 

"Hm?” She gives a few more sure strokes, licks another line while he watches, then rubs her thumb along the tip to spread the gathering slick. “Yes?”

He pants softly above her, bites his lip, and can’t help but buck his hips into her hand. “Love. Please.”

She meets his gaze once more, then presses a soft kiss against his flushed skin. “Only because you asked so nicely,” she murmurs. “Hold still for me.“ And then she parts her lips and wraps them around his cock, and his eyes flutter shut as a low moan escapes him. 

She starts slow, hollowing her cheeks and taking him inch by inch, then pulling back. Then she does so again, and again, taking more of him each time, bobbing her head and relaxing her throat.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone did this for him. He doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the sight of her lips around him and the warm slide of her tongue and the tightening coil in his gut. 

His fist clenches against the wall, chest rising heavily. He could snap in half with how tense he feels, resting his forehead on his arm and biting down on his tongue in an effort to remain still as she’d asked. It’s difficult to resist, but he does his best not to thrust his hips forward and chase the warm, wet heat of her mouth once she finally sets a pace. 

"Like that,” he pants, eyes half-lidded as he watches her head bob. “Fuck.”

She hums. It vibrates around him, and when her gaze flickers up to meet his again, he bites back another curse. 

“Godsdamn it,” he groans and tries to swallow around his tight throat. “Can I…?" 

The fingers at his thighs clench around the fabric of his pants, and he feels her nod as she closes her eyes in concentration. Then her hand covers his in her hair, encouraging him, and his rigid control cracks. He groans and gently fucks into her mouth, slow and mindful of the noises she makes, his hand curling at the back of her neck. 

The moment he feels it reach a tipping point, however, he untangles his hand to rest both arms against the wall. 

"I’m close,” he exhales, even though it’s not at all the words he wants to use. But her hand wraps around his cock to join her mouth like she knows, and he hisses a breath through his teeth as she uses both to coax him to completion. 

His hips stutter forward despite his best efforts, and he bites into his forearm as he spills into her mouth with a low moan. Stars dance across his vision as he rides the wave of pleasure. She gives him a few more lazy sucks before pulling back with a low pop. 

“Good?” she murmurs from beneath him. 

He blinks blearily at the wall in front of him, and then looks down at her. 

Her cheeks are flushed, lips plump red, with a string of saliva still hanging from the corner of her parted mouth. The image sears into his mind. 

He reaches a hand to grasp her chin, then leads her up with it until he can kiss her. “You,” he says, voice rough, “are going to be the death of me.”


	21. tempering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.4 spoilers.

“I still can’t believe that happened.”

“I can,” he mutters, rolling a shoulder and hissing out a wince. “Always has something to do with Titan, don’t it?”

“The amount of aether it all requires is still a bit obscene, but the fact that it worked at all is monumental…” At his continued grumbling, she waves a hand in his direction, still lost in thought. “Now we only need to figure out how to streamline the process further. I think perhaps Y’shtola would be best to speak to on that?”

He breathes out a sigh of relief when the curative spell washes over him. “Thanks.”

“Mm.” She comes to a sudden halt, studies him for a moment, then throws a quick glance over her shoulder. “Do you want to head to the hotsprings? We’re still relatively nearby. It might help with the bruises better than the spells.” The amount of boulders thrown was a bit ridiculous even without the presence of the primal. 

He just shrugs and half-heartedly turns on his heel, clearly too tired to argue otherwise. 

. . .

Really, what G’raha and Alisaie managed to pull is nothing short of a miracle. Even an hour later as they settle in to soak in the water, her mind spins with the possibilities. 

Some thoughts, however, aren’t as exciting. “Do you think it would work on an Ascian?” she asks, submerged up to her chin. 

He sighs and stretches out, then rests an elbow on the low table beside them. “I think it’s a waste of time to even consider.”

“Why? You don’t think it would work?”

“There’s little point to it. Their world is naught but a memory now—and it will stay that way so long as we’re around. Then tack on what Emet-Selch said to you…” he breathes out another, heavier sigh. “No. The short of it is that even if everything worked out for the better, I doubt that they’d want to live among us.”

The knowledge of Gaia and what she is sits heavy in her head. She’d glossed over her story about the final steps with Ryne and Eden after returning from the First. Keeping the truth of what had happened to Mitron was a choice she’d made out of a selfish desire to both avoid a difficult conversation and a decision not to churn up old wounds. 

She sinks deeper into the water. “I suppose. But it might have been nice to have the option sooner. Perhaps the confrontation with Emet-Selch would’ve gone differently.”

“You would’ve tried to save him?”

“No,” she says softly and ignores the dull pang of regret rattling through her chest. “I don’t think he wanted saving. Still, I can’t help but wonder at what he might’ve been like before the tempering. We were friends, once. We and him.”

“Lifetimes ago,” Ardbert murmurs, tilting his head back at the darkening sky in thought. “But whoever Azem was to him is a memory. And whoever Emet-Selch was before the sundering is not someone you or I ever had the chance of meeting.”

“I know. But it’s a thought that creeps up every now and then. Feelings that surge up from that age-old friendship. It’s similar to our memories of Amaurot—I know it’s not all mine, but it still feels a bit like someone is shoving them into my head. It’s hard to ignore.”

The friendship must’ve been significant, too, given the wisps of remorse and wistfulness she feels. It’s not something she gives much thought to during daylight hours, but in the quiet moments like this it continues to linger in the back of her mind. 

_As though the Ascians deserve more thought than they already receive_ , some part of her grumbles. As though her life—and his—doesn’t revolve around thwarting them at every twist and turn. 

A frown tugs on her lips. She doesn’t want to stew on this. 

“Do you remember what I said to you when you arrived at the Crystarium?” he asks out of the blue then, as though hearing her thoughts. 

“Maybe.” She rubs her hands together in the lukewarm water, pulls her knees to her chest, and rests her chin on them. “A lot was going on. Tell me again?”

“Save those you care about first, then worry about others after.” At her bemused look, he gives her a tired smile. “There’s little to be gained from thoughts like that. Take my word on it.” 


	22. moment

“We ought to head out.” 

She idly waves him off, evidently not bothered by the wind kicking up her hair or the looming darkness unfurling in the distance. “Soon.” 

“We’ll be caught in the downpour if we wait any longer,” he warns. “Just look at the sky.” 

“And? Are you afraid of a little rain?”

He gives her a sidelong look. “Hardly. Though I’m not the one who complains of wet clothes each time.” 

That earns him an eye roll. And despite the sharp flash of lightning or the promising, low rumble of thunder, she still doesn’t move from her perch. He sighs, and resigning himself to wait, leans his elbows on the stonewall beside her, content to watch as the storm slowly approaches shore. 

It’s not long before he feels the first specks of rain patter against his skin. Not long before the faint trickle of levin raises the hair along his arms—a sensitivity he’s noticed ever since reading her primers on black magic. Part of him is glad this storm has decided to start with merely a drizzle and not the all-at-once torrential downpour he’s grown used to. 

She squints against the wind. “Shouldn’t be long now.” 

“You’re awfully excited about this,” he notes, eyeing her. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy for poor weather.”

“I know,” she murmurs with a faint smile. “But I love watching storms brewing out at sea. There’s always something about them that keeps me out ‘til the last minute. Might be the energy around them. Can you feel it?”

He watches as she raises a hand. Sparks flicker along her skin as she waves her fingers—before the faint magic swells to dance along her entire arm, lighting up the space around them in a purple glow. 

She jolts back in surprise. “Oh!” 

The magic fizzes out.

“Probably not the most practical choice there,” he notes dryly as she frantically waves her hand. “Playing with magic at the onset of a storm.” 

“Aha!” She points a finger at him. “So you _do_ remember what I taught you.”

“Figure it’s more along the lines of common sense.” 

“You’d be surprised. Us black mages have very little of it.”

“Of that I’m well aware,” he returns with a wry smile. Nyelbert, for all his ingenuity and insight, often hatched plans that had the rest of them raising their brows. 

“Anyway,” she continues, swinging her legs around to jump down beside him, “lucky for both of us then that I follow a variety of schools of thought. The reckless tendencies even out.” 

He glances rather pointedly at the empty docks around them, expression flat. Everyone else has since taken shelter, shuttering windows and locking doors in preparation. He caught more than one curious glance sent their way as neither of them made moves to leave.

She follows his line of sight, then just smiles that sly smile of hers and leans towards him. “We can go anywhere, you know. At any time. A little storm isn’t going to change that. Just enjoy this with me for a bit.”

A low rumble churns through the sky following her words. Her smile widens, eyes bright despite the quickly darkening sky and bits of wet hair plastered to her forehead. 

He shakes his head. “If you say so. Just don’t complain to me later about your soggy boots.” 


End file.
